Sexy Beast made a show of scolding the newcomer, for all the good it did him. The big guy probably thought my precious poodle was a cat with a glandular disorder.
“Well, for goodness’ sake,” Audrey said, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen that one before.” She sighed. “Another mouth to feed.”
17
A Slot Machine in Church
ELLEN FLETCHER TAPPED her phone. “Who wants to hear the last ‘Peaches Preaches’ letter ever published?”
Martin made a face. “Please. I’m eating.”
I produced a dramatic groan, but I must admit, my curiosity was piqued. And if it didn’t bother Ellen to read it, who was I to object to hearing it?
Burke gave his wife an indulgent smile. “All right, darling,” he said, in that charming British accent which no longer put me in mind of a cannibalistic serial killer, “but after this, let’s agree never to utter that horrid woman’s name again.”
“Fine with me.” Like her husband, Ellen was in her early sixties. She was petite, with lively brown eyes and long, light brown hair streaked with gray.
The four of us occupied a round, blond-wood table in the Janey’s Place vegetarian café, next to the big picture windows looking out onto Main Street, Crystal Harbor’s quaint shopping district. I sat between Martin and Burke, and across from Ellen. We were the only customers in the place. It was about eight p.m. on a Wednesday in early May, one month after the Attack of the Killer Yucca.
In the two or three minutes before the cops had responded to my 911 call that night, Martin had a short, pointed conversation with the Morettis. Apparently he saw little point in Sean being arrested along with his dad and grandma. He offered to untie Sean’s wrists and cast him as the hero of the evening’s strange drama, the brave soul who’d thwarted Carter’s plan to plant evidence and subvert the murder investigation.
Audrey, unsurprisingly, was more than happy to go along with this version of events—anything to protect her beloved, misunderstood grandson. For his part, Carter grudgingly agreed not to mention the unpleasantness involving his son, his throat, and Grandpa Gillespey’s hunting knife, once it was made clear it would be his word against that of everyone else present. Well, except for the dog, the cats, and Jabba the Raccoon, and they were too busy licking the floor clean to squeal to the cops.
And yes, failure to mention the knife thing meant I was officially lying to the police, but it was a lie of omission, so not that bad, right?
Evie had kicked her brother out of the family home and was in the process of restoring it to its previous elegance. This meant Sean was once again living with his father and grandmother, who’d both been released on bail. Carter had confessed to killing Peaches, yet on the advice of his attorney, Carlos Levine, had pleaded not guilty. Apparently you can do that. I had little doubt he’d be convicted. Audrey had been charged as an accessory after the fact.
A determination to move out of his grandmother’s basement had prompted Sean to get his first ever honest-to-God job. He was now a busboy at The Harbor Room, a local restaurant and Crystal Harbor institution dating from the 1840s. Amazingly, he’d managed to hold the job for three weeks now and was making noises about wanting to become a waiter. That aspiration wouldn’t be realized at The Harbor Room, which only hired experienced servers. But if Sean worked hard and stayed out of trouble, he could probably learn on the job at one of the chain restaurants. I was pleasantly surprised to discover he had some ambition. I hoped it would last.
As for the $164,000 in blackmail bucks Carter had collected from Peaches’s former clients during the previous few months, it was anyone’s guess as to where he’d stashed it. I imagined him fantasizing about the day in some distant future when he’d be a free man and could make use of his bug-out cash, as Sean had called it. So much for paying his mom back for all her sacrifices.
And yes, Ellen and Burke Fletcher were now back together. Imagine my relief when it turned out Burke had nothing to do with Peaches’s death and that therefore I had not inadvertently provided her murderer with sensitive information about the investigation. Burke readily admitted to impersonating Howie on the phone. The only thing he cared about, as it happened, was the identity of Peaches’s ghostwriter. Once he had that, he lost no time contacting Zak and making his case.
Zak was skeptical at first that Burke was the concerned, loving husband he made himself out to be, but his conscience wouldn’t let him ignore the role he’d played in driving the couple apart. Zak managed to visit Ellen at a time when her sister, Trish, wasn’t home, and found her to be desperately unhappy. Would you believe it? All those crystals and herbs had failed to cure her.
Ellen missed her husband and dreaded the upcoming divorce, but was in such an emotional black hole that she was helpless to halt its progress. Zak managed to arrange a meeting between Ellen and Burke, which led to their reconciliation. Happily, Ellen was now back in her own home and receiving the treatment she needed. When I’d first met her, she’d offered heartfelt thanks for the role I’d played in helping to reunite her with her husband.
Seeing them together, observing how they doted on each other, I’d come to realize their relationship was in no way one-sided. Burke needed Ellen in his life as much as she needed him.
Ellen brought up the online edition of You Know It magazine on her phone. “By popular demand, ‘Peaches Preaches,’ the final chapter. ‘Dear Peaches,’” she read, “‘My friend Arnie knows I’m always short on cash, so he told me about this ad firm called Headboards that pays people to have their clients’ advertising logos tattooed onto their foreheads.’”
“Wait,” I said. “No.”
Ellen turned her phone toward me so I could see she wasn’t making it up.
“Good grief,” I said. “Continue.”
“‘The pay was supposed to be pretty good,’” she read, “‘and it turned out Headboards was looking for someone to advertise my favorite brand of beer, so I figured it was meant to be. The truth is, I was kind of proud to be associated with Schnook Brewing, even in this small way. The company’s founder, Augustus Schnook, died in 1903, but I like to think he was looking down from heaven and giving me a big thumbs-up when I showed the tattoo artist what I wanted. At that moment, I’d never felt more like a Schnook.’”
“I’ve gotta say, the guy knows his beer,” Martin said. “That Schnook IPA is just the thing on a hot summer day.”
“I’m a fan of Schnook wheat beer,” Burke said.
“Nobody cares, gentlemen,” I said. “Let the lady finish.”
“Thank you, Jane,” Ellen said. “Where was I? Ah yes. ‘So I get my forehead tattooed, and I have to say, it looks great. The Schnook logo, in all caps and full color, with the clinking beer steins and everything. I was so proud, I walked right into the Headboards headquarters, thinking I’m going to walk out with a nice, fat check, right? Imagine my surprise when they tell me the tattoo was supposed to be one of those temporary ones. Like a decal that washes off.’”
“Wait, you can get tattoos that, like, wash off?” It was Cheyenne O’Rourke, who’d clomped over to our table in her five-inch platform pumps with a water pitcher.
Cheyenne’s neck sported two permanent tattoos: the name Brian on one side and Sean on the other, both names now overlaid with big X’s, which were themselves executed in permanent tattoo ink. Which meant Sean, unlike the tattoo bearing his name, had been a fleeting part of Cheyenne’s life. Did she even remember pleading with me to help prove his innocence? Oh well, she had plenty of forehead space left for the next boyfriend.
Thoughts of my promise to Cheyenne brought to mind my failed quest on behalf of Evie Moretti, an actual paying client. I’d wanted so badly to find that collection of peach tchotchkes, I’d needed to find them, and I’d failed. For me, those peaches would forever be The One That Got Away.
“Cheyenne,” I said, “I’m still waiting for my cauliflower-crust pizza.” I figured it couldn’t hurt to give it a try, since Janey’s Place didn’t
serve regular pizza.
“You ordered pizza?” she said.
“Yes, and everyone else got their food twenty minutes ago. This is the third time I’ve reminded you.”
I’d insisted the others not wait for me. Ellen had eaten half her veggie lettuce wraps, Burke was almost done with his Thai coconut vegetable curry, and Martin had finished his black bean and rice burrito.
Ellen said, “Miss, can I get a box for my leftovers?”
“Jeez, one thing at a time,” Cheyenne griped. “Lemme get her tofu teriyaki first.” She clomped off before I could correct her, and without refilling our water glasses.
Martin said, “Why doesn’t Dom fire that girl?”
“Because he’s a nice guy.” I used to consider that one of my ex’s more charming traits. “How does the letter end, Ellen?”
“‘The company refuses to pay me,’” she read, “‘and now I have this permanent advertisement on my face, and I can’t afford to have it removed. My girlfriend left me, my dog won’t let me near him, and I lost my job as a cashier at the educational toy store. I mean, I like Schnook beer and everything, but I’m in a real pickle here and I don’t know what to do.’ Signed, ‘Schnook for Life.’”
“And the response?” Burke washed down a forkful of curry with a sip of green lemonade, which was normal lemonade blended with spinach, cucumber, and who knew what other ungodly substances. I had to look away.
“‘Dear Schnook,’” Ellen read, “‘I could suggest you grow bangs. Maybe develop a signature look, like a cowboy hat. Or a bandana headband. Or a hardhat. But those would only be temporary solutions, when what you need is something as permanent as the preposterous facial art you’ve saddled yourself with for the rest of your days. I’m guessing this isn’t the first moronically self-destructive life choice you’ve made, and for sure it won’t be the last. With that in mind, there’s only one thing to do, and that is to embrace your brainlessness and go all out with the ink. Do you like Cheetos with your beer? Have that logo tattooed onto your left cheek. What about Skittles? That one goes on the right side. And think about all the other fleshy real estate you can sacrifice to the cause. I hear freak shows are a thing again. There’s your new career. Now, excuse me while I pop open a nice, frosty bottle of Schnook Pale Ale and try to forget that half-wits like you have the right to vote.’”
I lifted my water glass. “To Peaches. She was one of a kind.”
We clinked glasses. Burke said, “I hope Satan has a strong constitution.”
“And a hot fire,” Ellen added.
“Shouldn’t we be toasting Zak?” Martin said. “He’s the one who wrote that column.”
“Peaches had to approve everything,” I reminded him. “She rejected any answers that had a spark of human decency.”
“He has his own advice column now, though,” he said.
Burke shook his head. “The magazine canceled it.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Too much human decency,” he said. “The very opposite of what the readers want. Or what they’d come to expect, at any rate.”
Burke and Ellen had become friends with Zak, who’d received multiple offers for his Crystal Harbor house, which was now in contract. He’d just moved to the Brooklyn brownstone he’d purchased, located about a half hour from the Fletchers’ home in Queens. The handcrafted birdhouse Ellen had presented him with as a housewarming gift was a replica of the poet Dylan Thomas’s green-painted writing shed. Zak had gratefully taken her up on her offer to help decorate his new home.
After Zak met with the detectives and came clean about the events surrounding his wife, Stacey’s, death, Howie revisited the original files, spoke to other officers familiar with the case, and concluded that the original finding of accidental death was, in fact, legitimate. He no longer harbored suspicions that Zak had something to do with it.
I’d sensed that Zak suffered pangs of guilt for not having saved Stacey. More recently, though, he seemed like a happier, more centered person. It was as if, by helping Ellen, he’d found a measure of redemption.
“Speaking of human decency,” Ellen said, “I saw on the news that your town’s mayoral election was overturned.”
“That was some scandal,” Burke said. “Tampering with ballots. Buying votes. In quaint, affluent Crystal Harbor, no less.”
“Nina Wallace has always specialized in dirty tricks,” I said. “She upped her game in this election and it backfired. The Town Council voted to reinstate Sophie Halperin, who received the majority of for-real votes. Sophie’s been great for this town. I wish we could make her mayor for life.”
Ellen peered under the table. “What’s that you have there, Martin? You’ve been shopping at Beatrice & Daughters?” Which was an upscale baby store there on Main Street.
Sheepishly he lifted the small, cream-colored shopping bag adorned with the silver Beatrice & Daughters logo. “I know it’s a little early. The baby’s not coming till the fall, but, well...” He parted the froth of silver tissue paper sticking out of the bag and displayed his purchase, a little, white stuffed lamb.
“Are you going to be a daddy?” she asked.
“A grandpa.” He passed the lamb to me so I could admire its adorableness. “My daughter, Lexie, is due in September.”
“You’re a young grandpa,” she said.
“I was a teen dad.” His expression softened fractionally as I handed back the toy, telling me he saw through my struggle to suppress the onslaught of emotion.
My eyes stung, and I knew if I tried to speak, the words would catch in my throat. Martin reached under the table, found my hand, and squeezed it. And didn’t let go. Had anything in my life ever felt so comforting? His touch smoothed out the sharp, relentless yearning for a child of my own, made it something I could hold, examine from all angles, and tuck back into its dark corner of my psyche.
Ellen made us promise to let her know when the baby arrived. Interestingly, she addressed us as if we were a couple, although I knew I’d introduced Martin as my “friend.”
Burke put down his fork. “I’m just going to come right out and say this.”
“Uh-oh,” Ellen said. “That’s the scariest sentence in the English language, coming from my husband.”
“I just might have some information the police would be interested in,” he said, “only I’d prefer not to explain to them how I came by it.”
I frowned. “Information regarding Peaches’s murder?”
“Naturally.”
“But that was solved, remember?” I said. “What could they need to know at this point that they don’t already know?”
“The location of what I have to assume is evidence,” he said.
“More evidence?” I said. “Um, how did you come by this information, if I might ask?”
“Oh brother.” Ellen addressed me. “This is a wild guess, but you probably don’t want him to answer that.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “We’re all friends here. Jane, do you remember when you accused me of stalking Peaches, and I denied it? Well, I didn’t come right out and deny it, but certainly I led you to believe my actions never went further than harassment.”
“Yes, I remember,” I said.
“I lied.” Burke blotted his mouth with his napkin. “I stalked that witch from the get-go. Whenever I wasn’t with a client, I could usually be found watching her house or following her to various locations. Well, except that I wouldn’t be found doing these things because as it turned out, I was quite good at it. Perhaps I missed my calling. I should have been a spy.”
Ellen’s smile was crooked. “What am I going to do with you, Burke?”
“Anything your heart desires, darling.” He lifted her hand and kissed it. “I am forever at your service.”
Martin asked, “What did you hope to gain by stalking Peaches?”
“Anything I could use as leverage to get her to undo the damage she’d inflicted on Ellen and our marriage,” he said. “I reckoned I’d know it wh
en I saw it.”
So Carter hadn’t been the only one looking to blackmail the blackmailer. “I’m guessing you came up empty,” I said.
“Sadly, yes, although it all came out right in the end, thanks to Zak. Something else happened, though, something intriguing. It was Friday, the twenty-first of March. Well, technically Saturday the twenty-second since it was nearly three in the morning.”
“That was a week before Peaches’s body was discovered,” I said.
“That’s right,” he said. “She’d been missing for nearly four months. I’d stopped watching her house, of course, but occasionally I’d drive out to Audrey Moretti’s place and see what Carter was up to. I suppose I hoped he’d slip up and reveal something useful. Of the two of them, he was definitely the weak link.”
“You spied on him in the middle of the night?” Martin asked. “Man, that’s dedication.”
“‘Obsession’ would be more accurate. What else did I have to do?” His gentle gaze settled on his wife. “I didn’t have one decent night’s sleep the entire time Ellen was gone.”
“Same here,” she said.
“So what was Carter up to at three in the morning?” Martin asked.
“He got into his car and drove off,” Burke said, “so naturally I followed him.”
“Where to?” I asked. Please don’t say—
“The Historical Society.”
He said it! “No no no no no.” I raised my palms as if that would make him take back his words. The thought of Carter creeping up to that attic in the middle of the night to check on the progress of his victim’s mummification was more than I could stomach.
Speaking of stomach...
I peered toward the food-service counter. Cheyenne was nowhere to be seen. At that point I’d have settled for the tofu slop she’d mentioned.
“For heaven’s sake,” Ellen said, “I hope you don’t mean he returned to the scene of the crime.”
“Not exactly,” her husband said. “He never went into the building.”
Well, that was something. “What did he do, then?” I asked.
Preserving Peaches Page 27